


Cold Turkey

by ficsandfuckery



Category: Blur
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Comfort, Fluff, Headcanon, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 04:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficsandfuckery/pseuds/ficsandfuckery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wrote this a while ago, when I was just getting back into writing after a hiatus. Just a short little mildly Gramon drabble based in the nineties (whenever Damon and Justine broke up, I forget the year). I was gonna give it an ending, but then I just sort of stopped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Turkey

Damon was crying when Graham got back from the market. He’d only gone out because Damon was on the phone with Justine and it sounded like he might like some privacy. The fridge was near empty, but Graham had forgotten to bring money; so he’d walked around window shopping a bit until he figured the row was probably over and it was safe to go back to the flat.

 

Damon lifted his head half-heartedly when he heard the front door close. Just enough that Graham saw his tear-streaked face. Quickly, he came over to him on the couch, sympathy already crawling onto his face. Damon and Justine had been fighting for a while now, but Graham hadn’t thought it was this bad. He didn’t think Damon had even cried in front of him in years. Not like this.

 

“D’you wanna…?” Graham asked softly, tilting his head to the side a fraction to finish the sentence. Do you want to talk about it? He sat down next to Damon, and gently pulled him into a hug, resting Damon’s head on his shoulder. Damon didn’t answer for a while, but fell into the embrace like he was being absorbed. He couldn’t talk just yet and they both knew there was no rush. So they just sat and Damon occasionally sobbed.

 

Graham kissed Damon comfortingly on the top of his head, almost unaware of the fact that his left shoulder was going numb. He listened as Damon’s sobs started subsiding, and quietly ran his fingers through the hair at the back of Damon’s head, willing to wait as long as it would take. He had nothing better to do with his day. Finally Damon spoke, his voice muffled by Graham’s tear stained t-shirt.

 

“She broke up with me, Gra,” he choked out. Graham hummed apologetically as Damon choked back another sob, and placed another kiss on his hair. He didn’t know what to say that would be comforting, because if he was honest with himself he was actually relieved. He hadn’t disliked Justine, but he’d disliked Damon and Justine; and especially Damon and heroin - something Justine was mostly responsible for. Graham knew that just because Justine was gone now didn’t mean the heroin would go with her, but he could hope.

 

Once Damon started talking, he couldn’t seem to stop. He told Graham all about the phone call that had ended it, and all the warning signs that he should’ve seen, and then later about all the things that had made Justine an awful girlfriend anyway. Graham listened to all of this without complaint, conveying his empathy for Damon’s heartache almost exclusively through hums and pets and chaste little kisses.

 

Damon, in the midst of his misery, thought that Graham would make a fantastic therapist, if only the rest of the world could understand his ways of communicating like he could. He rubbed his hand on the damp shoulder of Graham’s t-shirt, imparting his regret for the tear stain, and Graham smiled sedately that it was fine.

 

“No offence, mate, but I fucking hate Justine just now,” Graham murmured after a moment of silence, scuffling his feet absently in the shag carpet, his shoes still on from his walk to the market. Damon looked a bit hurt anyway, the wound fresh enough that he still had feelings for the one who’d inflicted it.

 

“Why?” he asked daftly, his voice broken from crying.

 

“She’s made you the most distressed you’ve been since we lived in Colchester,” Graham muttered, wiping away a stray tear from Damon’s cheek. “She shouldn’t do that to you, Dames.”

 

Damon smiled ruefully.

 

“’s not her fault,” he said after a moment, almost questioningly. “I just loved her too much.” Graham twined his fingers with Damon’s unresisting ones for something to do with his restless, guitarist’s hands.

 

“I don’t make you this sad, and you love me a lot, don’t cha?” he challenged meekly after a moment. The edges of Damon’s lips curled up in a weak smile in spite of himself.

 

“That’s cause you haven’t left me yet, Gra,” he replied, squeezing Graham’s hand. Graham ruffled his hair.

 

“You might leave me, Day, but I couldn’t… I’m much more easily replaced than you are,” he replied haltingly, meaning every word and making it show. Damon lapsed into another teary silence, still holding Graham’s hand, almost as though he’d forgotten how not to. After a moment, Graham kissed Damon on the head and stood up beside him.

 

“Come ‘ere, I’ll make you a cuppa,” he offered gently, pulling at Damon’s hand. Damon followed him dazedly to the kitchen, and positioned himself against a cabinet while Graham put the water on to boil and set out mugs and tea bags. Graham returned to Damon’s side to wait for the water to boil, and Damon slumped his head down on Graham’s shoulder. They waited like that in silence until the kettle began to screech, neither of them feeling the need for words.

 

Graham poured the water into their mugs, and was about to hand one to Damon when a thought struck him.

 

“D’you want some?” he asked, pulling a bottle from the cupboard. Do you want me to spike your tea with this red wine we’ve got sitting around? Damon thought for a moment. It sounded revolting, but he nodded anyway, and hoped Graham would give him more wine than tea. He did, and Damon took a tentative taste, making a face as it went down. Graham gave himself a bit as well, but elected to stay sober-er for once, to keep Damon from hurting himself whether by accident or on purpose. He knew Damon’s moods.

 

It wasn’t long before Damon decided that the perfect thing for his heartache would be a nice jab from a heroin needle. Graham asked him not to, following Damon to his room, but barely got a reaction at all. He held Damon by the shoulders and kissed him on the mouth to catch his attention, and asked him again, this time more insistently, not to go for the needle. Damon pouted, and asked if Graham liked seeing him upset.

 

“No, Day, no, nonono,” Graham insisted, kissing him again to keep him there, he was only a bit tipsy himself, but he always tended to kiss his best mate more when he was in the early stages of drunkenness. Damon, a bit past tipsy, kissed him back with slow, childish clumsiness.

 

“Just don’t stick yourself with that horrible needle, Dames, please,” Graham pleaded. Damon hit his head against the wall over Graham’s shoulder, and looked absently in his eyes for a moment before kissing him.

 

“Ok,” he accepted. “For now.” Graham sighed, but he knew it was the best he would get just yet. Heroin was no joke to quit, he’d heard. And cold turkey could kill you.


End file.
